


Wipe away the blood, kiss me well again

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memories, Minor Violence, PTSD, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2124084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his struggles, with so much to live for, Bucky tries to put his ghosts behind him. </p><p>
  <i>He remembers holding Steve, his chest against his back, skin so thin Bucky can feel the individual notches down his spine, and he’s shivering in his arms, the temperature in the dingy bedroom below zero. It feels good. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wipe away the blood, kiss me well again

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't actually take that long to write, which is really surprising—well, for some reason, writing isn't as difficult for me at the moment, I just hope it stays that way for as long as possible.
> 
> Thank you **nightingales** for making this coherent and fixing everything up, my lovely beta. 
> 
> No archive warnings apply, however there is the mention/reference to torture, flashbacks and PSTD. Please read with care. 
> 
> ~

His hands are shaking and his dog tags are cold against his skin.

A serial number —

Three, two, five, five, seven, zero, three, eight.

Barnes, James B.

Or Bucky, as everyone seems to call him.

It doesn’t make sense. The man’s name doesn’t belong to the ghost he left behind. There are holes in his memory, only glimpses of  falling, being strapped down, and a man coming towards him with some device to torture him with, but then laughter and late nights spent drinking on the streets of Brooklyn, an arm slung around the shoulders of the blond guy, Steve, who claims to be his friend. Bucky knows there’s more, but Steve refuses to tell him.

There are times when he’ll wake up traumatised from the nightmares or needs to smoke through half a pack of cigarettes to calm him down, leaving a stale, ashy taste on his tongue — a familiarity from one of the few privileges he’d been given outside of missions — but he’s not all empty gazes and a troubled mind; he feels pain and frequently, a tight sensation that vices around his chest, crushing his lungs until he wheezes out his breaths, but he has some good days. He’d had doubts about Steve upon first meeting him (again, in this life), but he’s not so bad. He can smile around him, even laugh, and he’s the only one who sees that side of Bucky.

Most days are bad days. Before he knows it he’s trying so hard to breathe and his serial number is a clustered mess in his mind. He’s told he was a soldier. A good soldier. He’s still trying to believe it.

He’s trying —

 

~

 

When Bucky is on the edge of an episode, a rarity but still an existing thing, Steve takes him out for a drive.

They can last for hours, down the highway or around the city. Sometimes, if Bucky feels the urge for it, they’ll go to Brooklyn. They’ll find a diner for some cornbread or pancakes, sit in the corner booth, and even though he’s tied his hood up around his face and keeps his head bowed, Steve’s hand pressed to his back helps him lose focus on what’s around him, and he doesn’t feel so exposed anymore.

This time he can only cope with the drive, his legs crossed on the seat and hair tied up in a loose ponytail. Rain pounds against the windshield, and he feels as if the cold can seep into the car despite the blasts of heat. He takes out a packet of cigarettes, plucks one out with his mouth, and lights it. It burns his throat.

Steve casts a sidelong glance at him. ‘If you’re gonna do that, you better open the window.’

‘It’s raining.’

‘Really? Hadn’t noticed.’

Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smirk on his lips. ‘Ain’t you supposed to be concentrating on driving rather than telling bad jokes?’

And when Steve laughs, a quiet, content sound, Bucky glimpses a flash of an image. They’re back in a bar, the lights dimmed and cheers coming from some other guys in uniforms. He’s wearing one too, half-heartedly fixed up, with a beer in hand, and Steve is laughing; Bucky wants him to laugh all the time. ‘You always did say my jokes were terrible.’

‘Yeah, but —’ He stops, blinking. He swallows. ‘They were good because they were so terrible.’

Steve looks at him again, expectedly. ‘You think so?’

He’s asking if Bucky’s had a sudden memory, filling in the pieces of a puzzle that can take years to finish, if at all. He nods. ‘I know so.’

 

~

 

‘Do you remember?’

‘Yeah. About me, his past.’

‘How much?’

‘More than before, but not enough.’

‘It’s okay —’

 

~

 

It’s raining again when Bucky goes for a run at 3 a.m. It pounds again his skin, harsh, the stinging water drenching him, but strangely, it helps, him being so accustomed to physical pain nowadays. He barely feels it.

He runs for —

He doesn’t know. Time passes in a blur of movement and heavy breaths until his chest tightens and a cold sweat has slicked his back, until he pushes himself so hard that he has to stop, an exhaustion that forces him to his knees. He braces against the ground, sucking in the oxygen so fast it burns as it goes down and he chokes on the dry, stale taste clinging to the roof of his mouth.

The night is ordinary. The pale, bright moon illuminates the path ahead of him atop the tip of the Washington Monument. He’s a sniper, and if he’d been watching himself from above, it’d be an easy shot, clean through the skull. There are times, just like right now, when it feels as if he’s being watched by agents who are moments away from dragging him into custody, and they could because he wouldn’t fight against them. He’d welcome it.

When Steve had found him, the subject of keeping him in a facility had come into question. Sharon Carter had been one of those for it, and Sam Wilson against. In the end, Steve ordered them to back off, said that Bucky was staying with him, “as he’s no longer a toy to be passed around”. What with S.H.I.E.L.D being disbanded, the argument to take Bucky away had died out, but Bucky isn’t so sure it’s the end. Deep inside, he isn’t sure they’ve disappeared completely, just hiding and following to keep a suspicious eye on him in case he becomes emotionally compromised, a morbid thought that often runs through his own mind. He’s been close, but he’ll try everything in his power to make sure that doesn’t happen.

It’s why he pushes himself to run another lap, and another.

For the control he’s still trying to find.

 

~

 

He remembers holding Steve, his chest against his back, skin so thin Bucky can feel the individual notches down his spine, and he’s shivering in his arms, the temperature in the dingy bedroom below zero.

Steve sighs. Bucky tugs him closer. And —

It feels good.

 

~

 

Sometimes Bucky will watch Steve work out, hidden behind the wooden beams along the ceiling, watching Steve beat his frustrations away on a punching bag with a crinkle of concentration in his brow. It’s clear that Steve knows he’s there, but he thankfully never addresses it.

Steve does it all morning, until the back of his shirt is drenched through with sweat and he’s breathing so heavily Bucky wonders if he needs an inhaler — a brief memory had popped up the first time he watched him, of a skinny guy wheezing out his lungs — but he’ll recover, and start all over again. He’s tempted to stop him when the tape around his knuckles stains with blood, smearing over the bag, but Bucky doesn’t give in. Steve needs this, just like Bucky needs his overwhelming runs and smokes, because it’s a distraction from the flashbacks that worm their way into their minds, and exercising to let out all the pent up agitation is the only method they know of.

It’s only when the last punch Steve lands that the punching bag breaks off the chain, hitting the opposite wall, and Bucky makes himself known. He’s not so sure if it’s a good idea for either of them, but the compulsion would eat him from the inside out if he doesn’t. Dropping down, he lands easily, and Steve doesn’t even flinch.

He picks up the punching bag, throwing it into a pile of several other broken ones. He looks at Bucky, gives him a brief smile, tight around the edges. ‘What’re you doing up?’

Bucky shrugs. ‘Thinking, I guess.’

‘About what?’

Standing here, in the middle of the gym, he feels out of place. Sitting down will just make it more obvious, and out of instinct to feel as if he’s hiding, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. ‘A lot of things.’ He swallows. ‘Looks like you’ve got a lot of things on your mind too.’

Steve pauses, then unwinds the tape from his knuckles. ‘Yeah, well — I’m used to it.’

‘Y’don’t have to be.’ He looks down at his feet for a brief moment. ‘Could do something about it.’

A smirk flutters over Steve’s lips. ‘Suggesting I should see a shrink or something, Buck?’

‘No,’ he rushes out; too fast, really, but he knows that’s not what Steve wants, and he would know, what with that time, when he seemed even more detached than usual — enough to not complete a mission — and they brought another guy in a white coat to talk to him. Fact is, he doesn’t want to expose his damaged reputation, and he’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t want to show his life either. ‘Nothing like that. Not unless you want to.’

He smiles, genuine and fine, like in these moments there isn’t any pain, and it makes Bucky wonder if that’s because he’s here. Sam and Nat always tell him it is, but he can’t believe it. ‘I’m good.’

‘It’s just—’ He stops to laugh, a harsh, quiet noise. ‘Pretty stupid coming from a complete wreck like me, but I’m here to listen, if you ever need it, y’know?’

‘You’re not a wreck, Buck.’

‘I am standing next to you.’

Steve huffs a laugh. ‘I’m not a saint.’

‘Hell of a great guy, though,’ Bucky says, smiling. ‘More than I’ll ever be. Or was.’

‘You know, when you agreed to come with me, I hoped the Bucky I knew was still in there, and I’d wait for him to come back.’ At this, Bucky feels a tug of pain in his chest, and he frowns. ‘But it was selfish of me to expect that from you — just having you here is enough for me. As long as you’re smiling, and you’re okay, that’s enough.’

Bucky nods, and realises that they’re closer than he’d noticed. His breathing escalates, feels like he’s about to have a panic attack that’s all too familiar, but he focuses on something else. He reaches over, tentatively brushing his fingers over Steve’s hand, and sighs in relief when Steve laces them together, squeezing tightly. It still amazes him that Steve accepts him with hesitation. More so that he doesn’t want to let go.

‘I’m okay.’ He doesn’t move away when Steve clasps a hand around his neck and pulls his forward, breathing hitching at the thought that Steve might want kissing. It doesn’t happen, with Steve only pressing their foreheads together, and although there’s a twinge of disappointment, it’s still intimate, comforting. ‘I’m okay.’

 

~

 

Blood drips from his mouth and there’s bruises on his skin.

Steve stands in front of him, arms crossed and expression hard and Captain-like. ‘I told you not to go—’

‘You don’t have to remind me. I know what I did.’  It’s been barely five minutes since he limped through the door, hissing as pain jolted through his cracked ribs as well as his other injuries. Butterfly stitches are all over his nose and his dislocated shoulder rests in a sling. ‘This ain’t nothing I haven’t handled before.’

‘It’s not about handling it. I know you can handle it, it’s just that you shouldn’t feel obligated to accept the missions.’

‘What the hell is the problem? It’s one less mission now, isn’t it? One less piece of shit in our lives so we can actually focus on the things that matter. Not work, not the shit load of broken arms or black eyes that come with it, but the people that do the damn job.’ He sucks in a shaky gasp. ‘If I don’t do it, that means you’ll need to, and if you don’t come back through that door, then what the fuck am I supposed to do without you?’

The next thing he knows he’s wrapped in a crushing embrace, a hand cupping the back of his head and lips at his ear. He savours it, afraid of how short it may last. He breathes in the scent of newly-shampooed hair and the slight sweat that dots Steve’s skin, and ignores the scream of agony in his joints, the ache that’s already taken over his body.

Because this —

This is what he’s thought about for too long, to sink into the warmth he’s deprived himself for so long and he’s only just beginning to allow himself the privilege. He scrunches his eyes shut as the feeling of being welcomed into someone’s arms—into Steve’s arms, and he’s shaking, overwhelmed, but he lets it happen because if he tries to push it away, he’ll end up sliding his guards back into place and ruining this moment. Instead, he belts his metal arm around Steve’s back, fisting the fabric of his jacket, and before he can stop it, a sob rips up his throat.

But Steve just holds him through it, doesn’t show the slightest surprise at how quickly Bucky adjusts to the feeling of opening up entirely, if only for a while. After so long of being wiped, frozen, and wiped again, letting all the emotions come out for a few seconds is incredibly beneficial. And that’s all it lasts, a few seconds of hiccuping gasps and a hand stroking through his hair, until Bucky pulls back, wiping his face on his shoulder.

‘Don’t talk like that, Buck. Don’t even think it, alright?’ He leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, which is crusty with dry blood. It burns when Steve pulls away. ‘’Cause it’s not going to happen.’

‘Yeah? How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I can’t lose you twice, Bucky.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I don’t want you doing something that’ll remind you of what you’re trying to forget.’

Steve then pulls him back into his arms but Bucky remains rigid in them. Steve is right; he’s been trying so hard to make his life a little more bearable, but some nights he’ll still wake up from some long, violent dream that hits him so hard he’ll rip the bedsheets or puke his guts up, thrashing so much he hurts himself and is unable to go back to sleep so he spends the next day with exhaustion weighing him down.

It’s like a fog that ghosts over him, seeping into his skin, cold and biting, until he can’t find his way out of it.

Nightmares like those he has killed, quickly by breaking their neck or so slow he can remember each plead and each scream of agony, are all based on the orders of Pierce. He remembers the faces—the looks of devastation of his victim and their families, screaming to the heavens of how an assassination could have possibly happened, and how the Winter Soldier had no ounce of emotion, of humanity. How he’d finished the job, without a trace of evidence of being there, and moved onto the next. They are also nightmares of his past life, of the man he’d once been, the good man, and of falling, and the last thing he sees is Steve’s face, Steve crying out to him.

And he wants to grab for his hand. He strains to reach him, but he falls.

He falls, and he falls, and —

Falls.

Bucky’s words are muffled in Steve’s shirt. ‘How’d you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘Manage—cope with your nightmares.’ He fists Steve’s jacket, grateful that Steve keeps his arms around him. ‘It’s gotta be more than just pummelling the shit out of a punching bag. Even you’d get tired of that.’

‘I do,’ Steve says. ‘But it’s not about managing, but rather finding a way to either distract yourself or—I don’t know, reassure yourself.’

Bucky swallows hard, noticing a foul taste in his mouth, thick and not budging no matter how many times he tries to shove it down. He has a feeling as to what Steve means, but he needs to hear it from him, to keep this conversation going, to feel like this moment is real and not another shitty figment of his imagination. ‘Reassure you from what?’

Steve shrugs. ‘That you’re in bed, alive, and not in the ice.’

‘You dream of the ice?’

‘Among other things.’ His hand is idly stroking Bucky’s back, and he leans into it. Steve pulls back enough to gaze at Bucky. ‘You know, you shouldn’t feel like you need to ask me these things if you don’t want to.’

A brief, fleeting smile plays over his lips. ‘Would you rather I didn’t ask?’

‘No, no—I want you to, trust me.’ He sighs and reaches up, as if to brush back Bucky’s hair, expose the hard lines across his forehead, the slight wrinkles beside his eyes, emphasising just how old he feels. Ninety years old in the body of a boy, and a boy in the body of a deadly weapon. Steve pulls his hand back at the last moment, and Bucky tries not to show his disappointment. ‘It feels good to talk to someone. I mean, there’s Sam and Nat, but the more the better, right?’

Bucky nods. ‘Yeah. I’d say this was just my curiosity, but then I’d be lying.’

‘What would you call it?’

‘Just a need to know.’ He pauses, then: ‘What do you dream of?’

‘Mostly nothing,’ he says, keeping his arms around him. ‘But when I do, it’s various things. Peggy. The Commandos. HYDRA bases.’ Bucky feels him swallow hard. ‘The last conversation I had with you.’

He pauses before asking, but pushes it out in the end, ‘What was it?’

Steve tucks his face into Bucky’s neck, and breathes, shallowly, (once, twice—)

‘We were in our tent, well, outside of it, looking up at the sky. You told me it was too cold to be sitting out, what with the snow, as if I was still the kid from Brooklyn that you used to care for.’ Steve inhales a trembling breath, and Bucky mimics it. ‘You told me we’d win the war, and that afterwards, we could start our lives for real.’

He dimly remembers it; the cool, crisp air, him and Steve huddling close together, their sides pressing against each other, and how he’d smelt of smoke and whiskey, clinging to the roof of his mouth. His uniform was dirty and scuffed, and Steve’s too, even though it was his Captain America suit, with all its stars and stripes. He remembers feeling a tug in his heart when he looked at Steve, the contrast of the moonlight shining over his face and stupidly thinking that he looked like an angel.

‘I said we’d go to Coney Island, didn’t I?’

He can almost feel Steve smirk. ‘You did. Still owe me that.’

And the rest of the memory is now there, fitting together like broken puzzle pieces, but he’s unsure whether or not it’s true, or some stretch of his imagination (or borderline insanity), of them moving closer and closer, of fumbling hands and inexperience, heady gasps and blushing skin.

Bucky frowns. ‘That night—did we kiss?’

There’s an embarrassed sigh, as if he’d caught Steve red-handed. ‘Only the one time.’

Finally, Bucky pulls back and stares at him. Then, without thinking, he cups Steve’s face and brings it towards his, sealing their mouths together. There’s no heat, no tongue or the slightest bit of passion, only a simple brush of lips, but it feels like a spark of electricity, shivering down his spine, the taste of insecurity but also sureness in the way Steve kisses back, as if he was the same kid from that night under the stars. They slot together, not perfectly, like a puzzle, but like a lock and key, with jagged edges and rough metal.

Bucky breaks the kiss eventually, but he keeps his hands on Steve’s cheeks, which are slightly flushed. Bucky smiles. ‘That’s two times now.’

 

~

 

It takes six months for Bucky to relapse.

Agents come in the morning, just as Steve finishes washing the dishes, simply explaining that they were checking up on Bucky. Steve steps forward, assuring them that it’s all fine, and it is. But all he remembers from that point on is one of the agent’s grabbing Steve’s arm, pushing him away, and Bucky seeing red.

He’s there in a blur of metal and rage, but it’s not a fight, not really, with uncoordinated movements and weak, pathetic attempts to throw him off, and Bucky fists the front of the agent’s jacket, lifting him off the ground. He’s growling, snarling, his fist pushing upwards against the agent’s jugular, pressing hard, until he hears a choking noise. His ears are pounding with the white noise in the background and spit flecks his lips by how hard he breathes.

His chest rumbles from the growl he lets out, hand tightening a fraction. ‘Don’t touch him.’

‘Bucky—’ There’s a voice, seeping into his conscious, but does he want to listen? ‘Bucky, let go.’

It’s the voice that cuts through him. It all snaps into place, like a bone, hard and painful; the air rushes from his lungs and he forces his hand to loosen, slowly unclench, and pull away from the dented bruise he’s left on the agent’s neck, unmoving as the agent slides to the floor. He drops his arm to the side, staggers back, and —

There is a sharp pinch in his neck, and then his world fades to black.

 

~

 

When he comes to, he’s in a hospital gown, in a bed, in a room with clean white walls. Though it’s nothing like the feeling of a hard table under his back and bars strapped around his arms, he still finds himself struggling to breathe. He’s not even held down by anything, only the scratchy fabric of sheets and an IV in his arm, but the urge to throw everything and bolt is still there.

But just as he’s prepared to do it, he sees Steve next to him. He’s curled up on a chair, asleep, and it triggers a memory so vivid it consumes all his senses—Steve, again, but smaller, skinny and all frail bones, trying to keep warm by curling himself into a tight ball. Bucky remembers joining him, laughing under his breath at Steve’s protests to be babied over, but gives in as he knows how serious the winter can affect him, affect them both. His skin is warm under Bucky’s touch, his fingers inching under Steve’s shirt, but nothing more, only ghosting over the trail of hair on his stomach. Just like that, he’s jolted out of the memory, his chest tight and eyes slightly wet.

As he flings back the sheets and gets up, Steve opens his eyes. He frowns. ‘Buck, what’re you doing? Get back into bed.’

Bucky drags in a broken breath, as he manages to force out, ‘I wasn’t in the right mind. Before. When he touched you, pushed you away — I tried to stop myself, I did, but I couldn’t.’

‘Hey,’ Steve says, shushing him. ‘You don’t need to justify yourself to me.’

‘Why?’ God, he feels bitter; a horrid darkness crawling up his throat, stirring in his chest, leaving a gaping hole in its place. No, there was already a hole, now it’s just expanding, growing and gaining strength until it will only swallow him whole and never spit him out. ‘Gives me plenty of practise for when those punks come along.’

Steve frowns again. ‘Who?’

‘Whoever wants to drill into my head again, take away this piece of shit again, whatever.’ His mouth twists into a grim smile. ‘Make me forget, start all over again. Y’know what’s terrible? What’s so pathetic and disgusting? I don’t blame them. I’d wanna remove any of trace of him. Because I want to tear whoever was involved in the Winter Soldier program apart, Steve. I hate that I do, but — but since I found out, when I stood at that damn exhibit dedicated to me, I wanted to burn them to the ground.’ He shakes his head; his whole body is shaking. ‘But that’d make me exactly who I don’t want to be. Pour more blood on my hands when I’m still trying to wipe the rest away.’

His voice is ragged, emotionally torn open now, flushing out all the shit, years worth of ice and obeying orders. ‘We’re incompatible. One human side, one machine, and the damn metal part is winning.’ He sighs. ‘So, who’s taking me away?’

And then Steve is holding him, again, and it’s so achingly familiar that he clings on, absorbs the warmth and the way Steve cradles his head. Usually, he’d have felt uncomfortable by how sweet it is, how he’s being treated as if he’s fragile, but he is; he’s glass, an ornament that has been handled with so much care, has now been thrown around the place, into a world that can take years to get used to. Without Steve, the one who holds him together, he’s sure to crack.

‘No one,’ Steve says, and he’s breathing hard, too, heated against Bucky’s neck. ‘When you fell, I wanted to do the same as you do. I set out to kill anyone involved with HYDRA. But no matter how many bases I tore down, or how many soldiers I punched, you were still gone. It won’t give you absolution, Buck.’

‘I know.’ He does know, of course he does. When he’d wrapped his hand around that agent’s neck, although there had been a rage and determination to stop him from hurting Steve, the other part of him screamed to let go, because it wasn’t going to solve anything. ‘I won’t. Just, I can’t stop these thoughts. Not when they involve you.’

Nodding, ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Buck — people offered to take you away and help, but I said no. If I know you well enough, you’d want to come back on this on your own, cause you’re the only one that can.’

For some reason he can’t place, his eyes wet again, threatening to spill over more, and he shoves a hand through his lank hair, followed by some ugly, bitter laugh. ‘Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to get help. Cause, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t know much about you, Steve, let alone myself. Sure, I believe we were best friends, still are now, but that’s all.’ Another laugh, weaker this time. ’Sometimes I think I’d get help in a heartbeat, as long as it keeps people safe. Long as it keep you safe.’

‘And now, Buck? You still feel the same?’ He reaches up and cups Bucky’s cheek, speaking softly, ‘I think you’re so much stronger than what you give yourself credit for.’

‘I—’

‘Tell me now, honestly, if you feel the same.’

He pauses, then: ‘I don’t.’

 

~

 

That night Steve persuades Bucky to sleep in his room, though it doesn’t take much coaxing. He curls under the sheets, but resists against the urge to run his fingers over Steve, over his sharp cheekbones — the very same in his memories of a skinnier guy — and ribs, over his arms and bottom lip, because it’s been days since that fleeting kiss they’d shared. He doesn’t want to ruin this, ruin a friendship by wanting more.

Still doesn’t want to, even when Steve rests his hand over Bucky’s hip, his thumb stroking over the exposed sliver of skin. He isn’t sleeping, yet his eyes are closed, and Bucky shouldn’t, but he places his own hand atop of Steve’s. His throat tightens when Steve smiles, a slight turn-up of his lips, and he feels like this is too good to be true. Does he deserve this? Such acceptance in spite of the troubles that come with him, all the falls and struggling to get back up, the terrible ghosts that haunt his life.

He must’ve let his guards down because Steve cups his cheek, runs over the dusting of stubble over his jaw, and murmurs, ‘You do. You deserve it.’

‘Really?’ He asks, but though most of him still doesn’t believe it, a part of him fights against it, tells him that if he pushes it away, he won’t be able to retrieve it. ‘Too stubborn to leave me sitting on my ass?’

‘Always am with you.’

Without thinking—something that he’s been trying nowadays, shutting off his mind—he does exactly what he’d wanted to do, reaching and tracing the contours of Steve’s face; down the bridge of his nose, over his temple, and across his mouth. They part under his touch. And then, the next thing he knows, Steve has surged forward, but doesn’t kiss him, only waits, cause it’s damn Steve and he’s too good and waits for consent. He rolls his eyes and drags him forward by his arm, sealing their mouths together, and allowing himself a smile when Steve gasps.

He swings his leg over, straddling Steve, and lifts his arm above his head, pinning them down. He kisses him hard, running his tongue over the seam of Steve’s lip and pulling it out with the tug of his teeth. He pulls back for breath, but links his fingers through Steve’s. ‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to do that.’

‘I’m guessing as long as I’ve waited,’ he says, and when Bucky lifts off, one hand slips around Bucky’s waist and the other in his messy hair. Steve leans up to place open-mouthed kisses on his neck, flipping them over until he’s hovering between Bucky’s legs, and he presses against him, his erection straining against his boxers. ‘Is this okay?’

‘Hell yeah, Rogers — you stop now and you’ll have hell to pay.’

‘Better hurry my ass up, then,’ he says, ignoring Bucky’s comment about how they’re suddenly obsessed with asses, and shuffles down the bed. It makes work of tugging down Bucky’s boxers, peppering kisses over his thighs and sucking bruises into his hipbones, but it’s all a tease, waiting for some form of begging, no, just any form of words, cause he knows Bucky doesn’t beg, wouldn’t reduce him to that, not yet.

He bites another mark into Bucky’s skin, until he’s shaking, all trembling and gasping, and his breath brushes over the tip of him. ‘Fuck,’ Bucky swears, fists tearing at the sheets, and his metal arm clicking. ‘Rogers, c’mon—’

That is just what Steve needs, as he swallows him down whole, his nose touching Bucky’s stomach. He licks him when he pulls up, his hand circling the base and twisting, and Bucky sinks his teeth into his lip to ward off the hoarse cries, but he fails, of course he fails, from the starvation of being touched intimately, lovingly for so long. For years, he’s been used, in different kinds of ways, horrid ways, and finally he’s been welcomed with gentle care. In the morning, he’ll probably bat away Steve’s sappy affections, but he needs it now. Needs it like he needs the blood that runs through his veins.

He’s only aware of the way Steve touches him, the moans that break from his spit-slick lips, and how, after moments, he comes so fast he should be embarrassed, but he’s not. He doesn’t care for anything but hauling Steve towards him after, tasting himself on his lips. He doesn’t care for anything but how he slowly brings Steve off with his hand and how Steve whispers Bucky’s name when he comes. He doesn’t care for anything but gluing his chest to Steve’s back and being lulled off to sleep.

 

~

 

When Bucky wakes and he sees Steve bathed in sunlight, he doesn’t realise —

Doesn’t realise Steve has light freckles across his shoulders, how he snores, or how he looks so peaceful, unlike what he had been expecting with Steve’s nightmares; there are no hard lines on his face and no worrying whimpers, like Bucky would have. But he also doesn’t realise that maybe, just maybe, this was Bucky’s doing.

He likes to think it was.

 

~

 

It takes nine more months and a week for Bucky to be able to walk into the diner—the one with the best cornbread and pancakes—and slip his hood off. No one looks at him, no one recognises him, no one cares. It’s just the way he wants it to be.

 

~

 

‘Do you remember?’

A crappy movie in playing the background, blurred noise to his ears as he drapes himself across Steve’s lap. He looks into Steve’s eyes; they are so bright, and Bucky realises that this is the first time he’s seen them. If he could pause a moment, now would be the best time do so. He nods. ‘Yeah.’

Steve runs his hand through Bucky’s hair. ‘How much?’

‘Enough.’ It’s true. He has good days and bad days, but most days are full of a blend of both. There is laughter and stolen kisses, punk and jerk thrown around as if back in their dull apartment in Brooklyn. In the night, he will sometimes still wake up in a cold sweat, thrashing and screaming out his own name, but he remembers how to breathe in the end. ‘Enough to know who I am.’

Placing a kiss on the corner of Bucky’s mouth, just like the first one they shared—the first one Bucky can now say he remembers fully, can recall the blood and leather—he asks, ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Bucky Barnes.’ He meets him halfway for a second. ‘And I take my own orders.’

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked. Please leave a kudos or comment. They're highly appreciated. 
> 
> wordfrenzy.tumblr.com


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